


the greatest of these

by kilodalton



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2860310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/kilodalton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She believes in him, too. (Missing scene from The Impossible Planet, takes place as Ten and Rose embrace under the black hole).</p>
            </blockquote>





	the greatest of these

**Author's Note:**

> This is my dwsecretsanta fic for the lovely applegrass, who requested “The Satan Pit with hurt/comfort and finally crossing that line into intimacy, which doesn’t have to mean adult since with those two a hand on the arm is pretty intense”

_And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. – 1 corinthians 13_

_\--_

He embraces her, his arms cradling her back. His free hand tangles loosely in the golden strands of her hair as she rests her head on his shoulder.

Her body is pressed tight against his, and he holds her like he’s trying to convince her that he can _protect_ her.

She closes her eyes, smiling softly to herself. Despite everything, she knows that he can—and that she can protect him, too.

The voice of the computer bursts forth with a crackle from the ceiling above their heads, and they pull back from each other only slightly to locate the source of the noise, which they do almost instantaneously: a small, dark, tinny speaker barely distinguishable from the rusty ceiling in which it was installed.

 _“_ _Entering night shift. Your chosen track for transition is Ravel's Bolero.”_

After a moment, they relax, nestling back into each other’s arms in unison, moving back together into place like magnets. Like this is exactly how they belong, puzzle pieces making a whole.

They stand still then, arms wrapped tight around each other, as the music starts, soft and gentle. It’s a delicate tune, somehow mournful yet doggedly resolute at the same time. It’s a song Rose is sure she’s heard before—one of those classical tunes they played in the background sometimes at Henrik’s.

Now, though, she feels as if she’s really hearing it for the first time. It sounds _lonely_. Yet all the same, defiant. The kind of music you’d listen to on a long, strenuous march through some sort of unpleasant landscape.

A lost planet under a yawning and hungry black hole. Yeah… she supposes their current location qualifies.

Still wrapped tight in his embrace, she’s seized by the sudden urge to sway with him to the lilting melody. She doesn’t dare, however—does he even dance? And would he want to, with her? Instead, she only holds him tighter as he presses the side of his cheek into her hair and she feels his breath rustle through the loose strands just behind her ear.

She suppresses a shudder and pulls him closer still.

His hand begins to stroke her back, caressing her almost down to her waist, down to where a bare strip of skin stretches from the hem of her shirt to the fraying top of her jeans. She’s always been a little self-conscious about it… her skin is dotted with freckles and a mole, like a little constellation that hasn’t yet been swallowed by the threatening black hole above their heads.

His pinky brushes her skin almost wistfully, like he’s wishing on a star, but he stops himself before she has a chance to react.

He clears his throat.

“ _Bolero_ was written for Ida Rubinstein… fabulous dancer, actress—absolutely _legendary_ figure of the Belle Époque.”

Rose bites her lip, idly wondering if she was any relation to Ida Scott on the space base, or black hole base, or spacestation, or wherever the hell they technically are stranded now. He’d know of course—if she wanted to, she could ask. He’d force a bright smile on his face and tell her every fascinating tidbit he doesn’t want to think about in regards to the place where they are trapped. He’d tell her all this, and likely more, if she asked.

She takes a breath and lets it out slowly, nestling her head against his chest.

She doesn’t ask.

“Uncommon name,” is all she finally says.

He nods, and she’s not even sure he’s paying attention. He stares off into space—literally—in the direction where the black hole lies, looming above them like a giant ugly eye, and in that moment she’s never felt so much like prey.

“—I’ll take you to see her—” he says, then trails off, his breath catching, his gaze still fixed towards the gaping hole above their heads.

She nods against the steady thrum of the heartsbeats in his chest, and it doesn’t matter that the TARDIS is gone, lost miles down in the abyss below them—in that moment, she believes him, and sighs contentedly.

“…I _would_ have done, anyway.” These last words are soft, a whisper she almost doesn’t catch under the staccato beat of the music.

She closes her eyes. “You will.”

A button from his suit presses into her cheek, and it’s not an uncomfortable sensation… if anything, it reminds her that he’s here, real and solid, and _with_ her.

She hugs him closer.

He shrugs.

“ _Bolero_ was among his last works, you know. Ravel, that is. He was forced to retire.”

She listens as the music reaches a crescendo, the drums and horns and flutes swelling discordantly, almost painfully loud, clashing so harshly to her ears that they almost sound off-key. It reminds her of the jazz at a speakeasy to which he’d once taken her. It had been crowded, smoky, dank and dark… with dissonant music blaring too-loudly, and nameless musicians with breath reeking of homemade whiskey leering down her blouse, telling her they were going to be as famous as Duke Ellington, or Louis Armstrong.

It’s one of the reasons she’s never much liked jazz.

The tune had ceased being pretty, something that she might have wanted to dance to or sway to. Now, it sounds harsh and brash coming from the too-small speaker. He doesn’t seem to notice, still holding her in a tight grip, motionless except for his steady breathing.

Well, enough is enough.

She reaches into the rumpled fabric of his front pocket, sliding the sonic screwdriver out from where he always keeps it at the ready, right over his left heart. He doesn’t seem to notice, nor mind.

 _Setting 122A_ . She points the screwdriver at the little speaker overhead, and flicks it on. Sparks fly from the ceiling as the music fizzles into silence like a worn out firecracker. That catches his attention at least, and he looks down at her in amazement.

Without a word, she slides the screwdriver back into his pocket, and glances up at him. For the first time since they embraced, he meets her gaze.

“You can do it. I _know_ you can. You’ll get us out of here, one way or another—”

“Will I?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice insistent—firm, even. “I believe in you. I always believe in you.”

“You shouldn’t. I’ve let you down.”

“Have you, then? Well I should be the judge of that. And _I_ say you haven’t. You’re right here with me, aren’t you? And that’s all I’ve wanted.”

He looks into her eyes—his deep, fathomless eyes almost boring into hers, each a black hole all its own—and she wonders what he sees.

“It’s all I’ve _ever_ wanted,” she says, finishing her thought with a whisper, her gaze transfixed on his. “You and me. I believe in you. I believe in _us_. The question is, Doctor… what do _you_ believe?”

He pauses, and in the silence, her thrumming heartbeat is even more deafening to her ears than the music was.

“I don’t even know anymore. The TARDIS was everything I had…”

“Not everything.”

She laces her fingers through his then—not the loose palm-to-palm grasp they usually use—instead curling her fingers around each one of his like vines. She squeezes.

“My mum used to tell me how she got through it sometimes, after Dad died,” she starts.

She tries not to think about the fact that at this moment her mum is several centuries and hundreds of light-years away. They’ll see each other again. That’s the whole point.

“She told me that every morning she’d get up and believe in a better day ahead. She’d hope, and she knew she’d figure things out, and she’d have faith that everything would work out. And it always did.”

He’s still staring at her, his brow creased. When he speaks, his words are soft but firm. A challenge.

“Faith. And hope. It’s not much to go on.”

She pauses. “You’re right. It’s not. There’s something a lot more important.”

“Which is?” he asks. His tone is brusque but it doesn’t hide the slight crack in his voice. She decides to let him think she hasn’t noticed.

Instead, she smiles at him… a small smile of understanding. He blinks quickly and looks away.

“You’re the genius. You tell me,” she says. A smile curls across her lips, and she squeezes his fingers once again.

He barks a short laugh and sniffs. She smiles—for real, this time.

“ _Genius_ … I suppose I am,” he says. He gives a cocky little smile and she laughs.

It doesn’t escape her notice that he hadn’t answered her question. But _he knows_ , doesn’t he? Of course he does. She’d hardly hidden her feelings for him. She hums contentedly, snuggling back against his chest.

When he continues, his words are soft. “You really think we can make it out of here?”

She nods, the fabric of his suit caressing the side of her face with the motion. “Course I do. Not a doubt in my mind.”

“You believe in me that much?”

“Always.”

“…I’ll likely have to go down there. Into the pit. If I go… I might not come back.”

She swallows and suppresses a shudder, forcing lightness into her tone. “Then I’ll just have to come down and fetch you.”

He squeezes her hand back. “You would, too.”

“You know me too well.”

He pauses, and his voice is husky when he finally speaks next. “Not nearly well enough, Rose Tyler.”

Before she can respond—or even try to process what he means by that—he’s pulled her close, fingers skating once more on the strip of skin above her jeans, and her heart flips as she feels his lips brush against her hair. It’s a simple kiss to the forehead—yet somehow not. He’s never kissed her before: not even this kind of chaste, gentle press of lips on skin. He lingers a moment, breathing her in, and she closes her eyes.

\--

Later, she’ll tease him over dinner about getting a mortgage. She’ll pick at her black beans and sauce, and he’ll refuse to eat anything at all. He’ll go down into the pit, but before he does, she’ll return the kiss— _sort of_. It’s a kiss of promise, and a kiss of hope, and faith, and love—and of luck.

Even later, she’s told that he’s dead. Regardless, she’ll stay with him—even though sorrow overflows her one heart and would be enough to fill both of his own to the brim, she’ll still stay. For him.

She believes in him that much.

Later still, he’ll realize she’s right. When he’s down in the pit, when all seems lost, and dark—in that moment, he remembers her words… faith and hope and… something else. Something he never got around to putting into words. Something unfathomable that he’ll never believe he deserves—golden, and pink, with constellations written like promises across her skin.

In that moment, he realizes exactly what _he_ believes in, too. So very, very much.

And it will make all the difference.


End file.
